


weary and worn

by jeannbeann



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, also idk how much romance this will actually have, i just think that no matter what version they come across, idk where this is going only that i love lif, if intsys doesnt give me closure ill cry over my own writing to give myself a fix-it fic, intsys never OFFICIALLY confirmed lif died in the duel so im rolling with it, kiran is the chairperson of the 'protect al' club right after his lil sis, no beta we die like men, so there, the summoner is always soft on alfonse, this was written before book 3's ending, writing to escape feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeannbeann/pseuds/jeannbeann
Summary: "I couldn’t save a single one of them. The grief twisted me. But they all yet live in your world—perhaps I can draw some small comfort from that.”/drabbles focused around Líf in the aftermath of the final duel with Alfonse in Book 3, written before the official conclusion.
Relationships: Alfonse/Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, Líf/Summoner | Eclat | Kiran
Comments: 9
Kudos: 84





	1. defeat

Líf fights with a thundering ferocity that borders on desperation.

It makes your breath catch to see him spin on the battlefield, Sökkvabekkr blazing red as it cleaves through the air. There are flashes of familiarity in the way he moves—you’ve seen this swordsmanship before, done by your closest partner back at the castle, training diligently with Fólkvangr in hand—but the recklessness behind every move is a stark difference to Alfonse’s swift, but cautious swordsmanship. There is no semblance of self-preservation behind Líf’s moves, no consideration for his own welfare; only pure, brutal power. It makes you uneasy. You tell yourself it’s because you’re nervous for your friends who have to fight him.

Then you see Líf just narrowly dodge a massive swipe of an axe by Haar and you have to swallow the instinctive shout of ‘_watch out_’ that bubbles up in your throat. You still take a step forward before you even realize it, eyes locked on how Líf rolls away from the snap of jaws by Haar’s wyvern—

You force your focus back on your own responsibilities as enemy reinforcements spawn from the south in an attempt to pincer you in-between the ones to the north. It helps to bury yourself in strategy, burying yourself in tactics that will ensure your friends’ safety. It’s almost enough to help you pretend that your hands aren’t shaking as your phone registers every successful enemy defeated until it’s only Líf left.

It becomes significantly harder to ignore when you realize that he’s going to fight against Alfonse.

Sharena calls out to both of them, but even her desperate pleas fall on deaf ears. She clings to you, teary-eyed and terrified for the sake of her brother, for both versions of him. You wrap an arm around her in the only comfort you can think of giving, unease gripping your heart. You’ve never seen Alfonse look so determined, something grim and fierce in his eyes as he circles his counterpart, Fólkvangr in hand. Then your eyes stray to Líf and stay there, a gnawing urge twisting in your gut to push him back, to force him to leave before this fight can happen. You know you should only be worried for your Alfonse, but when red eyes meet yours for a split moment, you _want_ to tell him to not be so reckless; you want to tell him that there is still someone left who cares what happens to him; you want—you want—

You _want_.

Something must show in your face because his gaze drops away, hiding his expression away from you, before he hardens with icy resolve. He charges first, and the clash of Sökkvabekkr meeting Fólkvangr makes you flinch and hold onto a now-sobbing Sharena a little tighter.

Alfonse is prepared and parries, expression composed save for the furrow of his brow as he musters his own strength to counter against the sheer power behind Líf’s swings. You watch, scarcely able to breathe, as Sökkvabekkr clangs against Alfonse’s shield, as Fólkvangr screeches as it slices against the skulled armour on Líf’s shoulder. You don’t register Ike carefully pulling you and Sharena back as the circle of people watching the deadly dance between the two widens, offering them more space. Your eyes are only for Alfonse, your heart aching at the idea of him getting hurt—

A voice at the back of your head whispers, thoughtfully, _which one?_

You feel your throat tighten as you tell it back, _both. Alfonse is always Alfonse, no matter what world he comes from._

Sharena sniffles beside you, and you squeeze her a little tighter. You can’t imagine the pain she feels seeing her older brother fight against a different, broken version of himself, but you do know one thing: she loves them both. If there’s anyone here that understands your twist of anxious reluctance, of choking apprehension clogging each of your nerves seeing them fight, it’s her.

Then, just as you think this fight will drag on for agonizingly ever, you see Líf’s stance shift. It’s the slightest change, one that wouldn’t be evident if you hadn’t found your eyes wandering back to watch him fight all this time—but it’s a crucial one. You only know the very basics of swordsmanship, yet even an amateur like you sees how he leaves himself open for the briefest of moments and at the exact moment that Alfonse brandishes his blade to switch from the defensive—

It only takes two swift strikes for Sökkvabekkr to go flying out of Líf’s grip and Fólkvangr to be plunged into his ribs.

Sharena’s wail is an echo of the grief that cracks your heart in near two.

The general’s sword lands with a clatter nearby, and you stare at seeing Líf’s entire body tense, his hands quivering slightly as they hover over the blade protruding out of his own body. He never touches it—you wonder if he thinks himself no longer worthy of it, to wield his old sword—but you see the tension bleeding out of him in a way that his body no longer can. Alfonse tugs, and Fólkvangr slides out of Líf’s belly with a sickening sound. He crumples to his knees, hand covering a wound that does not ooze. The strange blue glow of his body ebbs, and he bows his head, red eyes closing.

“This is it, then?” he breathes, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

Alfonse stares down at him. There’s a raw grief on his face now, the fight drained out of him completely as he sees his broken other self. “I’m sorry,” he whispers back, meaning it. “I couldn’t save you—”

“Why are you apologizing, Alfonse?” the defeated snorts, humourlessly. He shakes his head. “There is no need. You won. I was driven to madness, to ruin…” he lifts his gaze. “But you—you are still you.”

“Alfonse…” the prince of Askr shakes a little as he breathes Líf’s true name, a reflection of his own, pained.

Líf’s gaze slowly moves across the people watching. You see it linger on Sharena, who is crying openly now. “Sharena, the citizens of Askr, even…Kiran,” he falters on your name, and you feel your own eyes stinging when your gazes meet. He holds it as he goes on, a deep and agonized sadness in his voice, “I couldn’t save a single one of them. The grief twisted me. But they all yet live in _your_ world—perhaps I can draw some small comfort from that.”

“Al,” Sharena whimpers, and you know it’s not meant for her Askr’s Alfonse.

But the general only slides his gaze back to his brighter counterpart. “Please, Alfonse…ensure a happier future for your Askr,” he says, lowering his head back down in an unmistakably final display of defeat, once and for all. There’s a numbness settling over you as you watch him simply stay there, waiting for the final blow, all ferocity and desperation to fight drained out of him. You blink, dazed when the tears that have been welling in your eyes finally begin to fall. Alfonse tightens his grip on Fólkvangr, his expression wavering. Sharena’s cries echo in your ears, heartbroken and raw, as she watches her brother slowly lift his blade—

You don’t remember moving.

You only try to remember to breathe from where you’re suddenly standing in front of the broken Líf, Fólkvangr’s gleaming blade mere inches away from your nose.

Alfonse stares at you, stunned, and quickly moves Fólkvangr away. “K-Kiran! What in the _gods_—” he starts, pale-faced and shaken over narrowly striking you down instead.

“D-Don’t,” you choke out, your lungs tight, your heart in your ears. You fumble for your words; a streak of frustration cuts through the numb blanket squeezing you, because you don’t even know how to describe the mess of emotions that lies past it. “Don’t—don’t do this.” You swallow thickly. “You don’t have to kill him, Al.”

You know it’s stupid of you to say it. It’s a breath away from treason, putting your neck out for someone that the entire Order knows and has decreed is the enemy. Then again, you also know that you’re not saying this as Askr’s Summoner. You’re saying it as Kiran.

There’s still a collective unsettled energy that settles over the Order. The Heroes you’ve brought look more than a little uncertain over your choice—Ike is frowning, Haar is already shaking his head, Berkut looks downright offended, and Claude looks exasperated—and Anna is looking at you, aghast. Sharena is the only one who looks relieved, something like fragile hope in her eyes, and Alfonse—

He’s gazing at you with an expression you can’t read. His eyes are conflicted. He still hasn’t sheathed his blade. “Kiran,” he starts, slowly. “We both know that we can’t afford to spare mercy against an enemy like Hel—”

“Against _Hel_,” you echo, pleadingly. You aren’t collected enough to grasp at logical straws, scarcely able to organize your thoughts into words overall. “H-How do we know that he can’t be our ally against her, Al? He’s _you_. I—I know he isn’t a monster, not like her. He lost everything to her, and I know that somewhere, past all the grief and agony, he’s just as willing to figure out a way to beat her, once and for all—”

Then, another voice cuts in midway through your desperate rant, “I have it.” All eyes fall on Líf, who still hasn’t looked up, who still looks as though he’s awaiting a blade to cleave his head off his very shoulders. “I have the weapon that will kill Hel.”

“You…do?” your voice is faint. A sick surge of anger wells in you. “T-Then _why _didn’t you ever—”

“I cannot wield it. Nobody can.” Líf finally looks up, his expression weary, his skin clammy. The blue in his body has ebbed to a dull glow, and his red eyes are hazy when he looks up at you. He still musters the strength to move to grab something from his belt, causing everyone to tense in anxious anticipation of a weapon. Instead, he presses something cracked and white and painfully familiar into your hands: Breidablik. “Except you.”

Then, before anyone can demand answers, he crumples at your very feet.

////

It takes a lot of convincing not to leave him there to waste away. You don’t even know if he can die again, only that you don’t want to simply leave him lying there, injured. When Anna reluctantly agrees to take him as a hostage, you nearly buckle with relief. It’s a start. He’s heavy when you lift him up, despite how his body feels lithe and painfully fragile under your touch. Sharena rushes to help you, until you both can heave him off the ground together. Claude is nice enough to offer his horse to take him back, but only after you thoroughly bind him.

“Just in case,” he says with a cheery wink at you, ever cautious.

You do it, knowing he’s more than right.

When you arrive back in your own Askr, Líf is kept prisoner in the cells.

There are blatantly differing opinions on what his fate should be among the Order’s main four. Anna is unyieldingly firm on disposing of him once his usefulness as a hostage dries up, too cautious to risk the safety of everyone at the castle, most of all against an unhinged version of its prince. Alfonse is carefully neutral, torn between regret over his other self’s fate and rational consideration of everything at stake. Sharena is overwhelmingly in favour of saving him, insisting that it’s only a matter of time before they can fix everything and help another Alfonse become happy in his own world, too.

The deciding vote falls to you. You already know your vote, even after Anna’s reminded you of the consequences. You will apologize to her later, but you swear to take responsibility should anything happen—you want to do everything you can to save another Alfonse, another Askr, first. It does little to soothe her uncertainty, but the Commander still relents enough to allow you visiting privileges to the Order’s newest and most dangerous detainee.

“Figure out what this other Breidablik means,” Anna orders you firmly, pressing the worn version of your own Sacred Relic down atop the table. “He said that only you have the power to kill Hel for good, so you need to question him until he elaborates further on that.” She fixes you with a piercing stare, one that you feel looks through you. “Remember your duty, Kiran.”

You nod and promise you will—you always do.

Your eyes fall down on the other Breidablik and then away, uncomfortably. You don’t tell her that you feel as though you’re taking on the duty of another Kiran, another _you_, too.

You miss the look Alfonse gives you as you mutter something about going to check on Mercedes, who has gone to treat the prisoner.

When you get to the cells—cold and all the way at the bottom of Askr’s keep—you find Mercedes already finishing up. Byleth, who is escorting her as a precaution, nods at you when you appear and explains, “His weapons were deep, but Mercedes healed him up. He will be fine, so long as he doesn’t push himself.” They pause, before they eye the cell’s bars. “The wards holding him here are also holding up. I checked them myself.”

“Thanks, you two,” you muster up a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “I know you didn’t have to, but…it means a lot that you did.”

Mercedes blinks at you, before she laughs gently. “Aww, silly Summoner. It’s only natural to help those in need, no matter who they are,” she points out with a warm smile. “Sir Líf here has been one of my better patients, actually. He sat still and said ‘thank you’ and everything! More importantly, he’ll be right as rain now, so don’t you worry.”

“Which begs the question,” Byleth’s brow furrows slightly at you. “Why are you here?”

“I…have some questions for him,” you explain, rubbing at your arm. It doesn’t feel right to treat him like a criminal; it feels like some sort of warped version of a crime show you’d watch back home, with you suddenly shoved in the role of reluctant interrogator. “Commander Anna needs more clarification on what the other Breidablik meant, so I wanted to try and ask him more about it…a-and, ah, check up on him, too.”

You feel a little guilty admitting that part. You aren’t entirely certain how the other Heroes feel, having someone they were fighting bitterly against now here in the castle with them. Your gut twists when Byleth’s furrow deepens slightly, unsurprised when they start firmly, “Very well. I’ll stay and—”

“Actually, Professor, could you help me carry some of this stuff back? I brought so much, thinking I’d need it, but it turns out all he needed was a bit of magic,” Mercedes beams, unperturbed by her teacher’s growing tension. You’re about to offer in Byleth’s place, feeling foolish, but the healer just looks at you, her smile turning understanding. “I think the Summoner really needs to talk with Sir Líf, and it’d be awfully rude of us to eavesdrop, I think.”

Byleth looks tempted to argue, but you blurt quickly, almost too quick to hide your own desperation, “The guards are still here, I’ll be careful, I swear,” and they stop. Reluctantly, they wordlessly pick up the basket of healing supplies—bandages, gauze, and salve—and spare you one last nod before they leave. Mercedes squeezes your arm reassuringly before she hurries after her teacher, staff in hand. You listen to the quiet voice of Byleth telling the guards to “look out for her” before the teacher and student leave, their footsteps echoing as they venture back up the stairs. When you risk a peek, you spot the guards watching you from down the hallway. You quickly dart your gaze back to the cell.

You jump a little at realizing Líf is already watching you. He’s sitting on the cot, his fur cloak set aside. You’re relieved to see that the eerie blue of his body is back to its normal glow, but you hastily avert your gaze, abruptly self-conscious of being caught staring; it isn’t often that you’ve seen him without his cloak or shoulder armour, after all. You wave a little, and feel even more self-conscious because of it. “Um…hey. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he offers, faintly. Silence stretches out between you, and he still hasn’t stopped staring at you. You feel the prickle of his gaze on your skin. When he speaks again, he sounds resigned. “I should have known you wouldn’t leave me be, Kiran.”

“How could I?” you mumble, fiddling with a frayed thread on the cuff of your sleeve. You hesitate before you add, in an awkward attempt to lighten the mood and convince him you mean well all at once, “You may have been fighting us up ‘til now, but now I know you’re my best friend…even if it is a more stabby, alternate version of him.”

It’s a half-hearted joke, one that holds no real malice. Líf still seems to close himself off at that, though, which is the exact opposite reaction you were hoping for. “I’m sorry.”

You fluster. “N-No, that wasn’t—you didn’t—” you fumble for words, feeling your cheeks heat. You run a hand through your hair and heave a sigh, trying to collect yourself. “Look, I don’t know what you think, b-but—no hard feelings, okay? It might sound ridiculous, especially in the middle of a war, but…I hate Hel for forcing us into this position. I don’t hate you.” You swallow thickly. “I…care about you, Al. I always will.”

That earns you an even longer pause, but he seems to relax a little at that. “Líf,” he reminds you, softly. “You still have your Alfonse. I needn’t take the name of the one still fortunate enough to have you, Kiran.” The words are spoken with such frank honesty, you feel your own face heat up all the further. He looks away to lean his head against the cobbled wall. “I haven’t earned the right to have your care for my wellbeing, but…I suppose there is no stopping you, either, is there?”

You’re half-tempted to react the same way you would with your Alfonse: with a cheery insistence of, ‘_nope, we’re partners, we’re in it for the long haul_’ and a grin. You push it aside in favour of saying instead, “I stand with what I said.” You clear your throat awkwardly. “Nevermind my feelings, though. Líf…you have to tell me what you meant, giving me that other Breidablik.”

“What is there to tell?” he closes his eyes. “It is the last remnant of my own Kiran, the weapon that is capable of firing off the result of the Heart’s Rite—the only thing capable of killing Hel. You should find it familiar to your own sacred relic. My…my Kiran—” he falters here, his voice catching a little, before he amends, “—or rather, my own kingdom’s Summoner perished before they were able to successfully use it. Now it falls to you to finish what we started.”

You nearly ask him if he’s certain it’ll work, but you bite back the words. His entire world was sacrificed for this weapon. You don’t want to break it further by offering the possibility that it was for nothing; you have a feeling he’s already considered it multiple times without you bringing it up. Instead, you ask, “Will I really be able to use it? Do…do I have the same power as your Kiran did?”

Líf looks at you. His gaze becomes distant, as though he’s seeing someone else, and your heart tugs a little at imagining what your other self looked like, was like with the man before you. Your stomach flips a little.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, “but you have the same heart, Kiran. That, for now, will have to be enough until you have your opportunity to try and end this miserable fate for us all, finally. Just—please, take care of that relic.” He settles back against the wall, gazing at the opposite cobbled stones forlornly. “It…it is the only keepsake I have left of my Summoner.”

You’re grateful that your voice doesn’t shake when you promise that you will.

You resist the urge to touch the other version of your Sacred Relic, cracked and worn, hanging off your belt alongside your own Breidablik.


	2. closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiran visits Líf again, only this time they have company - some Heroes _and_ some persisting feelings for the man meant to be the Order's prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOO here's an update for the 2020 new year, for all you lovely, fantastical people that commented and gave kudos and just read my little fic!! I cherish you all with all my little kokoro's might, and I hope that 2020 has been good to you and will only get better from here on out!

The next time you visit Líf, there are Heroes there to guard you.

Odin and Sothe greet you when you reach the dungeon, the former enthusiastically and the latter gruffly. You greet them back, torn between being pleased at seeing them—they’ve both been some of your longest and strongest units since you first arrived in Askr—and confused for the exact same reason. “Not that I’m complaining, but what brings you here? Where are the guards?” you ask, bewildered. You make a face and glance around at the dungeon with its bleak cobblestoned floors and walls, and dismal atmosphere. It makes something in your chest twist knowing that this is all Líf has known for the past forty-eight hours; you don’t want to see any more of your friends here, if possible. “This isn’t the best place for anyone to be if they don’t have to, y’know.”

“Surely you jest, Summoner! Why, the entrenching darkness swirling within the bowels of Askr Castle bade me to venture within its depths, stirring my restless blood… even as we yet speak, I can feel my power growing evermore,” Odin murmurs ominously, while clenching his fist as if to quell such unimaginable might. Then a beat later he beams at you, blue eyes sparkling, waving his hand dismissively. “This is no problem for Odin Dark. Such a dark warrior of my caliber is well-suited for such arduous conditions, and I will protect you without fail!”

You blink. “Protect me?”

Sothe is far more direct. “We’re here to make sure the prisoner doesn’t get any funny ideas,” he says shortly, unfazed by Odin’s dramatics. They’ve worked together on the same team for years now; you guess that he’s grown accustomed to the mage, just as much as Odin has grown immune to the thief’s prickly attitude. He glances past you down the hall, brow furrowing. “It doesn’t matter if he’s an alternate version of this kingdom’s prince—an enemy is an enemy. If he tries to hurt you, he’s dead.”

“Or whatever fate goes beyond already dead. _Dead_-dead, if you will,” Odin supplies helpfully, nodding solemnly. He pats his tome confidently as he adds with a flourish, “With my unfathomable magical prowess and Sothe’s remarkable ability to murder someone in a thousand different ways, even the undead would pause before daring to best us! Look, my dark comrade-in-arms even brought his finest of weapons just for this occasion.”

Odin holds up a Pumpkin-a-Box weapon with a grin. Knowing him, he’s genuinely impressed by the holiday-themed dagger, but Sothe still bats his hands away with a scowl. “I didn’t have time to change,” he mutters, more to himself, almost embarrassed. Then he folds his arms and his expression darkens again. “It doesn’t matter what I use. I meant what I said.”

“And there you have it,” the mage affirms. “Consider us your dark servants to ensure your safety, Kiran.”

“Thanks, you two,” you smile despite yourself. It’s touching in its own way, knowing that you have friends here in Askr that will go out of their way to ensure your safety. And while you certainly don’t _want_ to see Sothe bludgeon Líf with a toy pumpkin dagger or have Odin blast him with magic, you decide it’s the thought that counts here. “I’ll try not to be too long, okay?”

You step forward, faltering when both of them instantly fall into step behind you. After all, the usual guards remained at their post down the hall before, leaving you a modicum of privacy to speak with the former prince. You glance back at them. Odin smiles at you, bright and oblivious to your hesitation. Sothe quirks an eyebrow at you, as if daring you to comment.

You think better of it and make your way to where Líf is sitting on his cot, your companions scarcely a few steps behind you. His head is leaning against the wall and his eyes are closed, making you pause. He does not react, even when you call his name, and dread wells inside you. For a moment, you’re half-tempted to call for another healer, fearing the worst. The tactician inside you warns that it could be a façade, a trap to lull you into a sense of false security, but your heart still twists with anxiety as you take a step closer to the bars—

“Kiran,” he says without opening his eyes, making you jump. Behind you, Odin lets out a startled noise and grabs Sothe’s arm in surprise. Líf lifts his head and red eyes flutter open to gaze at you, paying no attention to either Hero behind you. “Why are you here?”

The words hurt with their blunt edge—you still remember near vulnerability he revealed to you during your last meeting, back when he saw his Summoner in you—but you’re conscious of your friends’ watching behind you. You harden yourself against the sting, reminding yourself that no matter how much you may care for his wellbeing, you have a job to do. “I wanted to ask you a few questions,” you murmur quietly, shuffling a little closer. You aren’t blind to how it makes Sothe tense and Odin let out a squeak of, ‘_not so close_’, so you stop a few feet away from the bars. The wards are still holding up, but you aren’t foolish enough to risk anything, most of all with your friends here to get caught in a possible skirmish. “Are you up for it?”

You think you hear Sothe mutter, “_If it was me, he wouldn’t have much of a choice_.” You choose to ignore that, hoping to toe a line in this conversation that balances between efficiency and peacekeeping. You even hear Odin hush him with a quick, “_Let the Summoner handle this! Do you not realize you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, my brooding friend?”_

It’s true. It still makes you wince a little, most of all when Líf’s expression becomes carefully blank at hearing the mage’s none-too-quiet words. The idea of him thinking you’re only nice to gather information makes you more than a little uncomfortable. He still hasn’t responded, so you wring your hands nervously and add, “Prisoner or not, I want to ensure your comfort as much as possible, Líf. Are you, um…cold? Maybe you need a pillow? It looked like you were sleeping a little while ago…”

“I don’t sleep,” Líf points out, something heavy in his eyes. His voice is clipped, cold. He drops his gaze away from you to slowly return to his old position, eyes sliding shut as he mutters, “Ask.”

“It’s about Hel and her army,” you start as you take your phone out of your pocket. You have all your notes on it to spare you from lugging around your bag with you everywhere, stuffed with messy ideas and tactical strategies. Those papers are back in your room, spilling over your desk and workspace. You fiddle with the faded charm strap dangling off its case, almost nervously. “As her general, you are—_were_ privy to all knowledge on the strength of her soldiers, the tactics they use, the terrain…I need to know as much as possible, Líf, _please._ If we want to have so much of a chance in ensuring that the next battle will be the last, I—”

You already have an entire speech prepared to convince him to willingly give up information. You had whipped it up the night before; back when you had been pacing and mulling over how to potentially sway the undead general to your cause _and_ effectively gather information to put an end to Hel once and for all. You had rehearsed over and over to a sleepy Feh, trying to sharpen your voice into something beseeching and wise, rather than begging and desperate. It had taken you narrowly all night, the nerves and frail hope fluttering in your gut keeping you awake despite your better efforts to roll over and sleep.

Now, it turns out you don’t need it.

“Ask,” he affirms again, cutting your speech off before it can even form into the carefully-dramatic, heartstring-pulling masterpiece you had hoped it would be. “I will answer, if it is within my ability.”

You let out a tiny chuckle of disbelief. After all, you had been expecting a loud fight to get him to give in. “Ability, huh? Considering _your_ big brain, Al, I don’t think that’ll be an issue,” you mutter wryly before you can stop yourself, the nickname tumbling out without thinking. You narrowly bite your own tongue, most of all when _that_ gets Líf to open his eyes to look at you again. His gaze is intense with something you can’t place, something that makes your stomach flip-flop. It’s uncannily familiar to the exasperated one your Alfonse gives you whenever you crack a joke at the most inopportune moment, but you stop that thought short. _Not going there._ Instead, you drop your eyes down to your phone to keep your crumbling professionalism in tact, flicking to your recording application. “W-Well—alright, got’cha, then. Let’s start with the terrain…”

You both fall into a steady rhythm of questioning and answering. It almost feels companionable enough to convince you that you aren’t technically interrogating him—almost. Sothe and Odin are still lingering near you, listening to every word, hanging off every action they witness their Summoner do. It helps to keep you focused on your duty of ultimately bringing Hel to a final end.

Líf goes back to not looking at you a few minutes in. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, steeling yourself against the self-doubt that roots itself in your chest. You still have to swallow back the silly jokes that narrowly tumble out of your mouth in some sort of reflexive attempt to get him to shoot you that near-exasperated stare again. Nobody has to know _that_ part, though.

By the time you’ve exhausted every possible strategical question you can think of, it’s late enough that your phone beeps at you in an alarm you’ve set for dinner. Odin and Sothe are still dutifully standing by, but you feel guilty; they must be getting hungry. “I think that’s it,” you announce, tapping the recording to stop and save onto your phone. The guilt twists a little more when you catch a flash of genuine relief flicker through both Heroes’ faces before they quickly school it away. You pocket your phone and nod to the solemn Líf, even if he can’t see it. “Thanks, Líf. I—I don’t think it could’ve been easy to tell me everything, but I swear, I will use this to make sure we destroy Hel.”

That only earns you a noncommittal hum in response. You look at him, waiting for something more, but he doesn’t so much as stir. It makes the determination to remain strictly professional finally crack, and you open your mouth to say something, even a lame joke,_ anything_, to get him to finally _react_—

“Come, Summoner! Let us retreat to the dining halls for the finest of meals, fit only for warriors of our caliber!”

—then Odin is tugging on your arm eagerly, away from the Líf’s cell and up and away, towards the stairs. You splutter, but Sothe follows behind both of you, effectively cutting off any possibility of you trying to linger a moment longer. You blurt out a goodbye that echoes off the walls, and it sounds entirely too desperate to possibly pass as a Summoner bidding farewell to their prisoner.

_Damn it, _you think sullenly, disappointed.

Disappointed over _what_, you’re not entirely certain of. On paper, you have little to be disappointed over. Odin even reassures you that there will be a glowing report to Commander Anna over your “_masterful usage of your radiant vernacular to sway such a hardened criminal to confess his deepest secrets to you!_”. Sothe nods in agreement—which you know is a great deal, considering the man spares compliments only for Micaiah and Ike, the two people he respects wholly in the entire _universe_—and you know you should feel proud. The information Líf gave you will be invaluable in ensuring the Order is one step closer to complete victory against the terrifying evil that is Hel.

And yet the disappointment still sits at the pit of your belly, even later when you’re seated at the dining hall with your friends. The food is delicious. It’s a meat bowl, one of your favourites.

You still don’t eat much, but you poke your food around your bowl in the guise of actually eating it. You even get up to help yourself to more to prevent your friends from worrying. It works out in your favour; you have far more than you can eat alone, which taunts forward an idea lingering at the back of your mind little by little as dinner rolls on.

After all, you know there’s one person currently sitting at the pit of the castle who hasn’t eaten.

It isn’t until the occupants in the dining hall dwindle down, however, that you finally grasp onto your middling courage and act. You package up your leftovers—“For a midnight snack, I always get hungry when I pull late-nighters, y’know?”—and chime out your cheerful goodnights as you make your exit. Odin waves to you as you leave, and you wave back, trying to stifle the swell of guilt blossoming in your chest. You know he’d insist on following you if he knew, knowing brave, kind Odin.

You miss the way Sothe’s eyes follow you as you go.

//////

The dungeon is even darker when you eventually make your way back. It takes you a while, because you take the longest, most winding path you can. It isn’t intentional, though. You only do it because your own nerves narrowly push you into running back to your own room instead, right before your own stubborn determination—and the warm twist lingering in the back of your heart, traitorous and fluttery—spurs you right back towards the cells.

The guards are thankfully part of the castle’s barracks, not the Order’s. They nod at you when you appear, and you nod back to them politely. They watch you as you pass by, but remain at their posts. It makes you feel a little less tense, but only a little. Your nerves swell right back up the moment you find yourself stopping in front of Líf’s cell and find a pair of red eyes gazing back at you eerily from the dark. They narrow at you, suspiciously—then widen when you shove the bag forward abruptly.

“Are you hungry?” you ask. Your voice comes out a little loud, a little high-pitched, in your nervousness. You feel your cheeks warm, and hope the dim lighting of the dungeon hides it.

Líf only stares at you for a long time. Then he sighs, and thankfully turns to face you. He’s standing this time, you notice. You suspect he was gazing up at the sky, from the pitifully tiny barred window near the ceiling of his cell. “Kiran…I told you that I do not sleep. Did you not consider that I do not need to eat, either?” he asks, but his voice isn’t tart. His tone is borderline gentle, making your heart leap into your throat over how soft he sounds speaking to you. There’s a glimmer of worry as he murmurs, a frown in his words, “Please tell me you did not attempt to steal food for my sake.”

Your face only feels warmer now and you slowly lower the bag, embarrassed. “I ate some of it already,” you say, as if that will change things. You can’t steal food if it was yours to begin with.

He sighs, but it almost sounds fond. The fluttery feeling in your gut is growing up your body now, like twisted vines creeping towards your heart. “I cannot say that I do not…appreciate the gesture, Kiran. I cannot lie to the likes of you,” he admits, almost reluctantly. Then his eyes narrow, hardening abruptly. “Nevertheless, I had hoped my earlier demeanor would have been telltale enough for you to stop showing me such displays of kindness. I told you I have done nothing to deserve your—your friendship.” He stumbles over the word. “If you continue to show such mercy, such…consideration to an enemy, it will most certainly arouse suspicion and doubt among your allies. You needn’t such a folly moments before your battle against Hel. Remember, I am only here to see the end of that monster, not for…”

He trails off. You wait, but he never continues again, so you swallow thickly. “That’s why you were so standoffish?” you ask tentatively. Líf only looks away, and your shoulders slump. “That…explains a lot. I thought that maybe you were angry over having to give so much information to the enemy or something. Man, I feel dumb for not clueing in sooner.” You hesitate and add in a mutter, more to yourself than to him, “I…was worried you hated me.”

“Hated you?” Líf echoes, sounding genuinely perplexed. He turns to face you, and you’re startled when he moves closer to the bars, close enough to touch. His claws hover over the bars, but never make contact. The wards hum, warningly, to his proximity. He pays it no mind, his expression raw as he shakes his head and starts, visibly more emotional than you’ve ever seen him, “Kiran, I could _never_—”

Your heart jumps in your throat, waiting for the next few words. Líf seemingly catches himself and you see the way his expression shutters, closing off in a way you haven’t seen in a long, long time. You’ve only seen it with one person before, years ago when you were first summoned to this strange new world—the same person you worked tirelessly to befriend, knocking on his guarded walls until they eventually crumbled and gave way to one of the most fulfilling and dearest friendships you have ever experienced in your life.

“Alfonse,” you choke out, your throat tight with a feeling that you can’t even possibly begin to put into words.

Líf freezes, as if you reached out and struck him. You don’t dare to breathe as you lift a hand towards him, slowly, carefully. His eyes dart to your hand and back to you, his eyes wide and stricken with a grief so raw it makes the feeling trapped within you ache. He still doesn't move away. It feels as though every nerve in your body is alight with something bright and terrified and _new_.

The spell is broken abruptly when your fingers touch the bars and they light up a brilliant blue, shocking you with a burst of sharp magic. You curse, leaping away, shaking your hand as if you can shake away the jittery bolts of static that are zig-zagging through your nerves like a current. Your fingertips are numb and upon closer inspection, they’re red and raw at the ends. You wince when you touch them together experimentally; it feels like you’ve singed all of them.

Still, you’re shaking with something that goes beyond the shock of being zapped by a magical ward. You don’t want this moment to end, and you turn back to Líf, your smile sheepish as you try to diffuse the tension that’s flooded the air between you. “I think that could’ve gone a lot better, don’t you? That was a hundred percent my fault, though. I really should have remembered that Cecilia’s wards are no joke.”

You’re hoping he looks exasperated over you joking again at such a terrible moment. He looks anything but.

Instead, Líf sucks in a slow, quivering breath. He slowly steps away from the bars, his expression haunted before it twists into something dark and frustrated. You stare, flinching when he abruptly turns away from you, painting an ominous silhouette in the dim lighting of the cell. He’s all towering, jagged edges. When he speaks, your blood runs cold with the ice that bites at you with the words, “Leave me.”

You stare at him, confused. The air is thick and heavy, and you take a shaky step backwards almost reflexively. You feel horrible for it, for being scared of him, and you try to stand your ground. “Líf, I’m fine, really, it didn’t—”

“_Leave me_!”

Líf sounds nothing like the Alfonse you know—you’ve never heard Alfonse yell, Alfonse never yells—but the raw intensity behind it shakes you to your core. His voice echoes off the lonely dungeon walls, bouncing around in pained echoes. You fumble for your words, to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault you got hurt, that it’s nothing, already kicking yourself because _you should have known better, damn it_—but it’s too late. The guards are already there, weapons drawn, pushing you behind them protectively. They usher you away, all steel and suspicion, ignoring your pleas that it was a mistake.

“He didn’t do anything,” you splutter as they hurry you back up the stairs. “He didn’t hurt me! It was _my_ fault, he didn’t—”

“Kiran.”

Sothe is there when you reach the top, his expression carefully blank. Your words die in your throat. He has Peshkatz out now, and you have the terrifying thought that maybe he really did come a breath away from skewering Líf today, after all. You open your mouth to explain, but he only shakes his head wordlessly and you close it again.

He leads you back to your room, silent and tense. He still tells you a short good night before he closes the door behind you. You catch the glimmer of protective fury in his eyes before the door clicks shut.

A voice somewhere in the back of your mind tells you, cheekily, _I don’t think Commander Anna is going to hear our glowing praises after all this now._

You ignore it.

That night, you fall into a fitful sleep remembering agonized red eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh kiran, you big dummy. SEE WHAT FEELINGS DO TO YOU
> 
> But yay! An update!! I really wanted to write something up sooner, but I've been moving and the holidays have always been a crazy-busy time for me. Still, I'm happy I managed to dish something out in the early weeks of 2020! It really helped after seeing all the kudos and comments. They really do help boost my confidence in posting my work, so thank you for all your wonderful feedback - I read each one and cry a little inside. Happy, mushy tears.
> 
> I really do think that Líf would go through the same sort of traumatic characterization that FE3H gave us with Dimitri. I mean, after all the things our sweet lil' Al-pal goes through thanks to Hel, it would make sense - especially if he winds up seeing someone he cares about get hurt <s>again</s>. With that said, I do hope the characterization in this isn't too off. I'm even trying to write Kiran as light-hearted as the FEH comics make them out to be, but it's also a bit tricky to put a personality to an avatar character that everyone can see differently. I do hope they're not too bad! I TRY MY HARDEST especially when all of this is really just self-indulgence in exploring these characters beyond what the limitations of a mobile game writing gives us;;;
> 
> Also, I love Odin and Sothe dearly. They're two of my biggest +10 powerhouses in my account, with Odin being the best boost-boi and Sothe getting every single holiday-themed dagger I can get my hands on. Plus I think they'd also be the funniest duo, with how different their personalities are. They'll definitely be back, but there'll also be a lot of my favs popping up in this story <s>because I love them and have huge biases</s> to help add onto the PLOT (sorta kinda). 
> 
> Now no more long end note! I hope you enjoy, and I'll see you hopefully soon next time when we enter a chapter that introduces a character I also adore: THRASIR
> 
> <s>also we may be getting Líf as the next mythic hero, so let us all join together and hope that RNG isnt too mean to all of us so we can all get our boy safely back home!!!!!</s>


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